Counterbalance
by thebatwiggler
Summary: Daniel is good at ignoring, even if he wished he wasn't. AU, DxB, OneShot.


**AN- **Ok... this is an odd little thing I've been working on for the last few days, and I'm kinda worried about posting it since I don't know how I feel about it yet. I don't know... I'm scared it's gonna be horrible. lol. Oh btw, **I'm using 'OoO' as page breakers cuz the lines piss me off lol. **

**Disclaimer- **Don't own, don't sue.

**OoO**

You don't like to ignore her.

You don't like to ignore her, but regardless of what the strong and obvious ache in your heart is telling you, a (not-so) little voice is harder to disregard.

You can't, after all, disappoint your father any more than you already have and he _has _made himself clear on the issue numerous times. Bad for the image, he said. Bullshit, you say.

Or think, because when it comes to Bradford, you lose yourself and not in the good way.

**OoO**

You don't like to ignore her smile.

It's so bright and it burns you more to look away than anyone could imagine and you feel.

Empty. Without her smile you feel a lack of warmth, a lack of life, and a lack of _her. _

But father might be looking, might be observing, and the least you could do is secure her job.

You spare a glance in her direction but the smile has dropped and you feel.

Empty.

**OoO**

You don't like to ignore your need for her.

You're working late on the new cover but you don't really need to and everyone knows it.

But while they prefer to believe that you finally grew up, finally learned how to work and not party, you know the truth.

You're scared.

You don't wish to think of the empty apartment, the empty bed. Oh, there might have been hundreds of skinny legs and painted faces overflowing the large room, but it would _always _seem empty to you.

Because if she's not there, everything is empty to you.

So you work and work until finally it's done and everyone holds a small party in the office because they don't have anything better to do, and hell, if you were honest with yourself, you'd find that you don't either.

It's boring and you continuously wave off women who are looking for a good time until they all leave and you're alone in your office, staring through the transparent window into the party that you're missing out on, but not really, because you don't feel like you're missing out on much.

Until she's _there_, in the middle, among a guy who you couldn't bother to remember in five minutes and the ever-present Scottish lady, and then you feel like you've missed freakin' _disney-land _in the span of a few seconds.

She dances and her moves are erratic and odd, but to you it's the most beautiful scene you've ever witnessed. You decide that being able to watch is better than nothing so you relax in your overly-expensive chair and sip from the bottle you cradle against your chest.

But when the guy you now won't have trouble remembering steps a little closer to her, you fight the urge to urge to grab her and hold her and make her _yours._

You instead reach underneath your desk for another bottle and ignore the dull throbbing in the pit of your stomach labeled bitterly by you as 'need'.

**OoO**

You don't like to ignore her tears.

Women have cried too many times for you so you should be immune to it by now- and you were, until she came along- so it's a bit of a wonder that the hardest thing you ever did in your life was turn around.

She was heartbroken over _you _of all people, throwing questions like why the _hell _she's been moved to another magazine.

She catches you outside of your apartment and begins her flinging of accusations. She's in hysterics by the time she's done, having thrown your every fault in your face for the last ten minutes.

You automatically begin to wrap your arms around her but you remember. The bellboy, the guy who opens the door, everyone who could easily open their mouth for a few dollars.

So you turn around and walk away, ignoring her cries, ignoring your heart, ignoring the sudden wetness upon your cheeks, but most importantly.

Not ignoring the wishes of father dearest.

**OoO**

You don't like to ignore her voice.

She leaves messages, day after day, begging you to answer the phone, to talk to her, to at least tell her your reason for moving her into another department.

Asking what she did _wrong_, something that causes you to release a laugh so bitter and raw that it would scare you if you bothered to care.

You know you are too weak to answer her, too weak to even listen to her, so you call every model you know and decide to forget.

But you can't so all you're left with is a hangover and a bottle of vodka.

And work. Dear god, there is _always _going to be work since you're the _freakin'-future-heir-of-his-freakin'-company._

She stops calling after a month. You miss coming home to her voice, so you save all of the messages and on the nights when you're desperatedesperatedesperate you snuggle into large blankets and play your voicemail over and over.

And it is at times like those that you wish you weren't so good at ignoring.

**OoO**

You _like_ to ignore your father.

It's been three years and you've been drowning in a pool of 'worknotlove' for so long that you almost believed you were over her.

Until Amanda, pretty blonde thing that she was, informed you with her I-look-like-I-don't-give-a-shit-but-I-really-do voice that Betty was getting married.

Today.

So you stand there, contemplating the worth of being heir to his father's empire to the worth of being with _her_.

So you're running. Running to some small little church on some street in Queens, but you soon realize your stupidity and hail a cab.

You arrive, disheveled and panicked, searching the church for her face. Santos, you believe, tries to hold you back, but you push him out of the way in your panic and then.

You see her.

She's wearing the most ugly wedding dress in the world and you can't stop the laughter that bubbles up your throat and- wait, you're _crying _and in complete hysteria. She rushes over to you, throwing her almost-husband's arm off her and you feel a small twinge of happiness and you know it's shallow but it's the most.

It's the most happiness you've felt in a really long time.

She's there, right in front of you and all you can do is hug her and breathe her and become _one _with her, but it's the almost-husband that pulls her away.

So you pull her back, feeling vindicated but not righteously so, and you aren't even making any sense but you scream out your love, your need, your _everything _just so she could hear it.

She does, as does the rest of the church.

So now you're holding onto her as if life itself depended on it- and to you it really does- and you whisper your feelings in such a way that it almost makes them seem beautiful.

She looks up at you, her glasses fogging from your breathe, and she does what you most expected but did not believe would happen.

She slaps you squarely in the face and it's a sharp pain, but you're not fazed by the action.

It's the meaning behind it that has you on your knees, heart shattering into unfixable pieces, bemoaning your stupidity in thinking that she would take you- you who threw her away because your father would disown you.

You get up and move to leave- after all, you already ruined her wedding, might as well let them salvage some of it- but there's suddenly strong arms holding you so tight you almost can't breathe and you.

You don't know what to do, don't know how to act, never learned what to do when your heart is so close to bursting from happiness that you might throw up, never knew you could _be _this happy.

You hesitantly wrap your arms around her, wondering if you've finally gone over the edge, but content with the idea if it meant you could hold her like this.

There's a screaming almost-husband and his family in the background along with other confused people, but you are focused solely on the (not-so) small bundle of warmth in your arms.

You will never ignore her again.


End file.
